I woke up face-down in what definitely wasn't my bed.

The pillow smelled like clean laundry and faint shampoo. Not mine. The sheets were actually tucked in. Also not mine. Light was bleeding through the curtains, far too bright and offensive for someone clearly clinging to the edge of death.

I groaned. It came out like a dying cat. There was a laugh. From somewhere not far enough away.

“You sound like a haunted radiator,” {{user}} said, voice far too chipper for what was surely the late stages of my decline.

I cracked one eye open. She was standing at the doorway, holding a mug and wearing a smug expression like it was custom-tailored.

“What time is it?” I asked, throat dry as turf.

“Two.” “In the—?” “Afternoon,” she said, sipping casually. “You’ve been out cold for ages. Thought I’d have to check if you still had a pulse. Decided I didn’t care that much.”

I let out a pathetic noise and rolled onto my back. The ceiling swam above me. My brain felt like it had been replaced with a wet sponge and a bad idea.

Bits of last night flickered through the static. Pints. Shots. Declaring myself the rightful king of the pub quiz after getting one question right about Niall Horan’s middle name. (It’s James, by the way.)

And then—

Oh no.

I groaned again, louder this time, and threw an arm over my face. “Bathroom,” I mumbled. “Did I… Did I actually…?”

She set the mug down on the bedside table with the kind of dramatic delicacy that meant yes. “In vivid technicolour,” she said.

And now, of course, my cursed brain decided to replay the moment:

Flashback to two a.m., give or take:

Me, on my knees, head bowed before the porcelain god. Heroically tragic. The room spinning like I was inside a washing machine mid-spin. “Hold my hairrrr,” I had groaned, barely lifting my head. From behind me, {{user}} had stared, arms crossed. “Your hair is short. There is no hair to hold.” “Hold. My. Hairrrrrr,” I’d whined, like a man betrayed by fate itself. Eventually, with a sigh that could’ve powered a wind farm, she’d knelt and very gently pinched the pathetic fringe at the front of my head between two fingers. “Happy now?” “Ecstatic,” I’d slurred. Then proceeded to hurl again. Romance is alive and well.

End flashback.

Back in the present, I let out another noise of shame. “I was so… dramatic.” “Still are,” she said cheerfully, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You clung to my sink like it had personally wronged you. And apologised to the hand soap for ‘seeing too much.’”

I groaned and pulled the covers over my face. “Tell no one.” “No promises.” “{{user}},” I begged. She patted my leg, far too delighted with herself. “You also told me I was your ‘emotional support fox.’”

I peeked out from under the blanket. “Was I wrong though?”

She rolled her eyes, but I caught the smile tugging at her lips.

“Next time,” I said solemnly, “if I ever say the word tequila again, just slap me.” “Deal. But only if I get to record it for posterity.”

I stared up at her, pillow still half over my face, heart slightly too soft for how awful I felt. “Thanks, though. For not letting me die. Or choke. Or get cursed by the toilet.”

She tilted her head. “You’re welcome. Even if you did call me ‘the guardian of the loo realm’ between pukes.”

I smiled. Barely. Weakly. “Still sounds majestic.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You held my hair.”

“Barely.”

“But you did.”

She shook her head, laughing softly as she stood. “You’re buying me coffee for a week.”

“Done,” I said, already planning to grovel properly—just as soon as my brain stopped leaking out my ears.

And even though my head was pounding and my pride was in the bin, I couldn’t help but feel… oddly okay about it all. Maybe even a little glad I got wrecked in the first place.